Like Dust
by Allons-yEveryone
Summary: He's not real. He died...and yet here he is, holding John. He had returned, but for how long? After all everything must stop, everything must end, everything does, everything turns to dust. Sherlock/John


**Like Dust**

**Genre**: Angst/comfort  
**Pairing**: John/Sherlock  
**Summary**: He's not real, he died, and yet here he is holding John. He had returned, but for how long?

* * *

At first I was too scared to tell him, to frightened to shatter the dream. I'd died and then returned selfishly, but for how long? His face, grey and thin, so thin brightened when he saw me; hollowed eyes funneling muddy tears. I stepped over the threshold and into the gloom of the dusty old memorial, which had once been my home.  
"Sh-Sherlock?"  
He'd fallen into my arms, shaking like a tree knocked about by hazardous winds. I held him and wondered what to say, wondered how I could explain. It was then that he suddenly looked up at me, stroking my pale cheek with his equally pale hand and whispered, between bloodied cracked lips, words I did not wish to hear.

I stared back at him, not knowing how I should react. All I felt was guilt and disgust, guilt at leaving him, and disgust at myself for returning. I should not have returned, and I should not have left. I could pretend for a second however that this could be forever, that we could be forever, I told him so...in so many words.  
"I wish it could be forever," the words were sluggish and slow, dragging on my unused tongue. I did not blink, I could not with the knowledge that if I did it would be just one second less.

John gave a hysterical laugh, his weak knees buckling beneath him. I slowly lowered his shaking body to the ground, and we knelt there, crouched in a hug of shaking skin and bone.  
"I'm sorry," I told him.  
"Is it...?" John's voice trailed off, muffled by my overcoat, "is it really you?" he asked.  
I could not answer as the light caught my eye, the thin glow of the sun as it rose above the buildings opposite. I suddenly knew how long I had. The line of light met the windowsill and inch-by-inch down onto the floor below.

I pushed John away, grabbing his shoulders in urgency, "Look at me," I ordered.  
His fear and confusion swirling in the distorted waters of his eyes.  
"I cannot stay," I told him.  
His brow furrowed and his eyes grew cold.  
"No," I told him, "you don't understand," I muttered in frustration, seeing the line of light slowly making its way over to the chair leg, then the armrest. I pulled him close, resting my forehead against his as I held his face firmly against mine, "John," I began, "I do not have long," I whispered, "and I have no choice in this matter."

He began to shake, renewed tears filling his eyes, "But you'll be back..."  
"No," I told him, as that sharp prickling pain crawled its way around my eyeball, "I don't have long."  
His lips quivered, "You can't, you're here, you're real..."  
I felt the cool trickle of a tear down my cheek, "John."  
He did not understand, how could he? I didn't understand it myself.  
"I'm dead John," I told him, "I don't know how but I was granted these few minutes, I was granted a second chance," I felt the need to pull him into a hug, but I dared not take my eyes away from his. "I'm so fucking sorry," I choked out, "it was selfish of me to return, I did not..."

"Sherlock," John spluttered, saliva spraying across my chin as he struggled to find his voice.  
I gave a quick glance at the light, which he saw. He pulled away from my grasp to see what I had looked at and when he returned his eyes were wide.  
"I have until the light reaches me," I told him.  
His face contorted into what looked like pain, "I can't tell if I've gone mad, if he's still here and torturing me, or you're real and this is real and..." his hands gripped my trench coat and pulled me close, "you can't go, fucking hell you can't."

I held him, as the nearing sunlight reached John's feet.  
"Look after yourself," I told him, "promise me you'll look after yourself."  
He shook his head and I pulled him up to star into my eyes, "Promise!" I ordered him.  
He whimpered.  
"I love you John," I told him, "I love you so so much," I babbled, "don't hurt yourself, don't give up, find someone, be happy, I love you so fucking much," I brought him close and kissed him, gently and slowly, "promise me, John, promise you'll do this for me."  
I looked up and watched as the light followed the line of his shaking back, "I love you Sherlock, I love you, I love you, I fucking love you so much."  
"Shhh," I told him gently, "Promise me, John," I whispered.  
"I promise," and the words, like vows, were muttered, and spluttered, and stammered into my chest repeatedly. Restarting my dead heart for a fleeting second before the light encompassed my right hand.

It was beautiful, the way it happened. Instead of pain, or fear, or the speed I thought I'd disappear it was slow and relatively tranquil. I smiled as I watched, no longer frightened, or scared. My hand dissolved into dust, each scintillating for a second before disappearing into shadow. I suddenly recalled a memory as I watched my arms and body drift away. A memory laying in a warm stream of light, squinting and blinking in the brightness, as I blew, in short puffs into the air, watching as drifting dust illuminated by the light, spun. Insignificant little specs, what was always there but forgotten, spinning round in the darkness and in the light, a dancer on a stage, an electron round a nucleus, a carriage on a Ferris wheel, a planet around a sun, round and round, round and round, beginning to end, end to beginning, like a möbius strip, beautifully continuous, never ending, never stopping, forever and ever, and ever.

_'For you Sherlock, I promise'_

* * *

**AN: I was depressed, couldn't sleep, so here you go...depressing fic. Please comment! By the way this was inspired by a brilliant drawing by ruskina on Deviantart so if you'd like to go over there: **

**www . ruskina . deviantart art/I-O-U-297734507**


End file.
